Monday, 21 April 2014

Children of Yarmouk

Mamma is dry
And daddy,weak
My siblings,
Shot and sick.
I asked for help from above
But only came planes that roar
Laden with bombs of death
And salt to my oozing sore.
Mamma is dry
And daddy is weak,
It's now my turn
To go and seek,
For crumbs of food
Beneath the grass,
Hoping,one day,
This too shall pass.



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